


Shelter (Is Where the Heart Takes Root)

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Adoption, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Childhood, Coming of Age, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Guardian-Ward Relationship, M/M, Non-Canonical Age Difference, Orphans, POV Derek, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Slow Build, Supernatural Elements, Teenagers, Very Eventual Pseudo-Incest, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s twenty-five when he adopts the twelve-year-old Stiles Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sola1839](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sola1839/gifts).



* * *

 

Derek’s twenty-five when he adopts the twelve-year-old Stiles Stilinski. Everyone says Derek’s too young to adopt anybody. (And Derek can hear them, too, courtesy of being a werewolf; he can hear them from the other end of the parking lot at Stiles’s school, or from outside the convenience store, before he enters.)

He’s twenty-five. It’s been seven years since he lost his own family, since he was stupid enough to love a human and ended up destroying his pack because of it.

And yet, he adopts a human child, because it’s not  _quite_  human yet, in the way children are, half-animal and half-mystery. Stiles is a strange child anyway, silent with more than grief, all big, dark eyes and white knuckles. He smells and sounds like prey - sour fear-sweat and short, frantic puffs of breath.

That’s how Derek had smelled and sounded to himself, after the fire. He understands, but that doesn’t mean he’ll put up with it. Prey-smell is distracting. And dangerous. The full moon is only two weeks away.

So, naturally, the first thing he does after adopting the kid is taking him to Ms. Morrell, the town’s shrink, to see about the hyperventilation. And the trauma. Once again, he inadvertently overhears an elderly neighbor commenting on what a surprisingly wise move it is, for him.

It isn’t wise. Derek just doesn’t want to talk to the boy, himself. He’d rather outsource the comfort-giving to those better suited to it. Better qualified, and not just by sheets of paper, but by virtue of having hearts.

Derek’s heart was burned out of him seven years ago.

*

He owes Stilinski Senior, is the thing.

Back then, after the fire, it’d been the sheriff who’d taken Derek in, for a couple nights, and given him a place to rest his head, if not to sleep. (The nightmares had torn through him, and he remembers waking up gasping, throat raw from screaming, to the sheriff calming him with one hand on Derek’s arm and a hot chocolate in the other, like Derek was the kid, not that waifish creature called Stiles that Derek saw lurking about the house, pretending to be asleep but watching Derek, all the while.)

He owes Stilinski for his sanity, and the least he can do is take in an orphaned kid, a kid whose mother had died even earlier than his father, who Derek had seen hanging around the hospital for those last agonizing months that Uncle Peter had been alive, breathing through a respirator with half of his face melted into an unrecognizable mess.

And now, the kid had lost everything. The McCalls would’ve taken him in, Derek knows, except that it’s no secret how hard Mrs. McCall has to work to make ends meet and raise one son, let alone two. She wouldn’t have thought that way - she’s as noble as the sheriff was - but Stiles would’ve known it, nonetheless.

In Derek’s case, everybody knows he’s filthy rich. Stiles will never feel like a burden. Never feel like -

He won’t.

And that’s that.

*

The first few nights pass in a moon-haze as Derek grows accustomed to having another scent, another body in the house, and has to school himself into not snarling, not attacking, not spilling blood. This is his pack’s territory, and while he intellectually knows that Stiles is now his pack, his instincts have yet to catch up. It’s annoying. He meditates before he sleeps, lest his still-recurring nightmares rouse the beast in him, when the boy’s around. Even though he’s told Stiles to stick to his room, at night, behind a locked door.

A locked door won’t stop Derek. But it’s the principle of the thing. A reminder to himself as much as to Stiles, to whom it also serves as a valuable lesson, that ‘home’ is never safe, and that, therefore, no place is ever ‘home’. Territory, though - territory is acceptable.

Kate taught him that.

*

And then, one morning, when Derek thunks a multi-pack of cereal on the dining-table (kids like that stuff, don’t they?), Stiles just dips his spoon into the milk in his bowl and says:

“I know you’re a werewolf.”

Derek turns to stare at him.

“I figured it out ages ago. Even before - before everything. Well, not everything. Not  _your_  everything. Before my everything.”

“Before the death of your father,” Derek supplies, and Stiles flinches.

“Just for that, I’mma pour this milk down the back of your shirt.”

Derek frowns. “You won’t.”

“Whoa, look at Mr. Sourwolf attempting actual adult authority. Not.”

“I’m old enough to have fathered you.”

“If you got someone pregnant when you were  _my_  age? Sure. Don’t be weird - er, weirder - than usual. You’re freaking me out. Siddown and accept the fact that the awesome Stiles Stilinski knows all.”

Derek sits down and accepts that fact. And then, he says: “You won’t tell anyone.”

“Who the heck am I gonna tell? The whole town thinks I’m nuts because of Ms. Morrell.”

“You need grief-counseling. It’s normal.”

“The way I fly apart at random intervals, though? Not so normal.”

“Stiles.”

“I’m fine. Okay, I’m  _not_ , but I will be. Even if my guardian is an emotionally-constipated, lunar-powered Lothario-type. And yes, I know what Lothario means because I’ve read every single one of my mom’s old romance novels, cover to cover. Also, just for your information, my IQ is 165.”

“Your test scores don’t reflect that.”

“Attention-deficit.” Stiles makes a waving motion with his hands. “Irrelevant. I’m smarter than you are.”

“And because of that, you won’t listen to me.”

“Nope! Not unless it makes sense to  _me_.”

“Does finishing breakfast in time and getting to school make sense to you?”

“Not really.”

Derek picks Stiles up by the back of his neck and carries him to the car. It’s how he’d carry a pup, if they were both in wolf-form. Derek briefly considers the benefits of turning Stiles.

“Hey! Okay, okay! Point made! My brain is bigger than yours, but your brawn is bigger than mine! The sword - um, the claw? - is mightier than the pen! Put me down!”

Derek throws him onto the passenger-side seat.

And gets into the driver’s side, himself.

They make it halfway to the school before Stiles adds, sheepishly, “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but going to school normally involves schoolbags? And I left mine at home. Because you were  _hauling me around like a sack of potatoes_ , Jesus. This is certifiably not my fault. And by ‘certifiable,’ I mean just as certifiable as you are.”

“You’ll have your backpack by lunch.”

“Too late! What am I gonna do for English?”

“Quote Shakespeare,” Derek says. “Your IQ’s 165, isn’t it?”

There’s a brief silence. And then, into that silence, Stiles speaks. “You suck.”

“I’m a werewolf, not a vampire.”

“Did you just - that was a joke! You made a joke!”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“Ohmygod. Maybe you’re not that bad.  _Maybe_. You’ve got the whole deadpan bitch-face thing going on. I like that in a possible-villain-that-adopts-strangers’-children-for-potentially-nefarious-purposes.” 

“Don’t use that word again.”

“Nefarious? You can’t sue me for libel if I’m accurate, by the way.”

“Bitch. Don’t use that word.”

“You just used that word.”

“I’m an adult.”

“You argue like a five-year-old.”

“Shut up.”

“ _You_  shut up.”

“I could just gag you.”

“Nefarious! You are absolutely nefarious. Gagging a young boy with - um, let’s just stop. My sentences are actually getting ahead of the weirdness I have in my head. That’s never a good sign.”

That’s when, thankfully, they reach the school.

Derek drops Stiles off and returns to collect the kid’s schoolbag, annoyed by Stiles’s insubordination. Clearly, a pack hierarchy must be established.

By the time he makes it back to the house, he’s irritated, but simultaneously relaxed.

It’s an odd feeling.

*

A month later, Stiles turns thirteen.

Derek establishes a pack hierarchy by handling things much as he would with a cub - by creating a strict perimeter that is not to be crossed without permission (the perimeter around his room), by fixing meal-times according to a strict schedule (no unhealthy snacks outside of pre-agreed-upon times, and Derek can  _smell_  the curly fries, so Stiles always gets caught) and by never letting Stiles out of his sight, except for when Stiles is at school.

It almost works.

Derek’s stock-trading doesn’t require him to be elsewhere, so he’s at home when Scott drops by and he and Stiles play video games (Derek got Stiles a Wii after much badgering, which… ostensibly did not help with establishing a hierarchy) or when Stiles fails to do his homework in lieu of finding ever-more creative ways to get past the childsafe net-surfing locks Derek has set on his computer (Stiles has them hacked in under a day), or when Stiles stays up all night and shivers and cries and hyperventilates.

At first, he considers going to Stiles, during those nights, and - what? Hugging him? Derek can’t imagine himself doing that. And he remembers being a teenage boy, remembers wanting his dignity, remembers wanting no one seeing him when he was vulnerable.

And so he leaves Stiles alone.

What he doesn’t count on, however, is Stiles refusing to leave  _him_ alone. Stiles turns up in the dead of night, directly defying Derek’s carefully-set perimeter, and crawls into bed with Derek, even though Derek’s still half-transformed and covered in nightmare-sweat.

“I could hear you screaming,” Stiles says, when Derek growls.

“Get out of here.”

“No.”

“I could hurt you.”

“No, you couldn’t. You haven’t hurt me on  _full moons_ , don’t be an idiot.” Stiles reaches out, tentative in a way that indicates politeness but not fear, and touches the side of Derek’s face. His eyes are round with wonder when he feels the solidity and heaviness of Derek’s lupine jaw, the sharp jut of one of his fangs.

Derek pulls away. “Go to sleep.”

“That’s the plan.”

They sit there. “In your bedroom,” Derek clarifies, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Nah. Don’t think so. You’re going to lie down, and I’m going to lie down, and we’re going to sleep, and you’re not going to have any nightmares.”

“I’ll slit you open with my claws.”

“I have this theory, thanks to my incredibly high IQ, that the claw-thing won’t happen if I’m around. You need pack nearby.”

“I haven’t started thinking of you as - ” Derek blinks. He  _has_  started thinking of Stiles as pack. Largely because of Stiles’s many insubordinations, because of Derek having to bring him in line… “Did you plan this?” he asks, finally, and Stiles shrugs.

“Eh. Does it matter? Serendipity or accident, it don’t change the fact that I’m the brains of this operation.  _Sleep_.”

Stiles might have more of a gift for survival than Derek had predicted. The thought is a… reassurance. “I’m the Alpha,” he says, anyway, because Stiles has to know that.

“Yes, yes, you’re the Alpha, Big Man. Wolf. Wolf-man. Go. To. Sleep.”

Derek sleeps.

And wakes up with the rising sun, with Stiles latched onto him like a limpet, curled around Derek’s back with his arms around Derek’s chest, his face mashed into the pillow under both their heads and drooling onto it, so copiously that the patch of wetness can be felt beneath Derek’s ear.

Disgusted, Derek pushes Stiles away - and notes that his own fingers are human again, that he had not woken even once after Stiles had climbed onto his bed.

The whole room smells of Stiles, of pack, and it’s a scent Derek had almost thought he’d forgotten, a subterranean tug that draws him back to Stiles, facing him, to sleep for another hour, until he has to wake Stiles up for school.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

When Stiles is fourteen, he falls in love with Lydia Martin.

It’s surprisingly anti-climactic, given what Derek knows of adolescent love, but Stiles isn’t nearly as stupid as Derek had been, or as feral or persistent as Laura had been, when she’d fallen for that jock on the lacrosse team and had smelled like lust and flash-paper before every full moon. Instead, all Stiles does is talk about his crush, brightly, optimistically, and with the sort of patience that seems odd for his age. When Derek asks, Stiles tells him that his dad had fallen in love with his mom almost ten years before they’d gotten married. It had taken a long while to win her over.

“Good things take time,” Stiles says. “Speaking of, d’you think the chicken’s done?”

And then they have dinner, after which Stiles goes up to his room, and Derek pretends not to know that after the soft tapping sounds of Stiles typing his homework come the soft rustling sounds of Stiles jerking off, stifled moans and the scent of petrichor, a damp, rich, musky smell, like the smell of the earth after rain.

*

Derek doesn’t actually need to tutor Stiles in any subject, because Stiles is (by his own admission) a genius. But he  _does_  need to keep an eye on Stiles and make sure he gets his homework done on time, and doesn’t write on bizarre, unrelated topics for his essays. One or two do occasionally slip past his radar, though, which is why he ends up talking to Coach Finstock about how Stiles is apparently obsessed with male circumcision, and has made it the topic of his essay on the economy.

“What the hell is this?” Derek waves the essay in front of Stiles’s face before slamming it onto the dining table.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch; the Alpha routine doesn’t work on him anymore. Maybe it never did. “My essay?”

“Why is it about male circumcision?”

“Because female circumcision is a whole ’nother ball game. Um. So to speak. No pun intended. And it’s painful and sad and related to a lot of bad things in the world, whereas male circumcision is less… something.” Stiles chews his dinner; swallows. “Wait, are you pissed off?”

“Don’t use that word.”

“Are you annoyed to the point of urinating on public statues,  _sir_?”

“What the hell are you - ”

“Listen, okay, education is about satisfying my curiosity. So I satisfied my curiosity.”

“About circumcision.”

“About penises.” Stiles goes red.

Derek takes a deep breath. And sits down opposite Stiles. He doesn’t do conversations - they’re largely pointless, and he’s bad at them even when they aren’t - but Stiles is turning  _puce_ , now, so it’s got to be serious. “What,” he asks, flatly.

“I just. I think I might like. Um. Dick. As well as - ”

“Don’t. Use. That. Language.”

“Girls, okay! I might like guys as well as girls!”

“I thought you were in love with Lydia Martin.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Lydia is the love of my life, my very, very short life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still pop a boner for a hot dude like - ” Stiles stops.

“Like who?”

“Danny Mahealani,” Stiles mumbles. “And Jackson Whittemore, maybe. Except for when he’s being a jerk. Then I sort of just want to kick him in the head.”

Derek massages  _his_  forehead. “And this Danny kid? He’s not that bad?”

“Uh, no. He’s the best. Everyone likes Danny.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles boggles. “I just came out to you, and you’re like - ”

“Just because I don’t talk much, doesn’t mean I’m a bigot,” Derek snaps.

“Basically, just because you act like a hostile hick, doesn’t mean you  _are_  a hostile hick?”

“Have you thought about asking him out?”

“Who?”

“Mahealani. The guy you’re attracted to.”

And Stiles is that interesting shade of puce, again. It comes with a strange, frightened-but-excited smell, like Stiles is both aroused and terrified. “No! No. I couldn’t. Ever. He’s way outta my league. Like, so way outta my league that he’s on another planet.”

“Give it a try. If he isn’t a bad guy, he won’t humiliate you or out you to other people.”

“Er. I don’t have to worry about that. Given how Danny’s gay. And out. To everyone.”

“Then ask him on a date.”

“ _No_. Look, I don’t love him, all right? I love Lydia. I just… occasionally jack off to thoughts of guys. Very occasionally,” he hurries to add. “Almost never.”

Derek grunts. And gets up to leave the kitchen table, relieved. “No more essays that have nothing to do with the set topic.”

“Gotcha. If I have any identity crises, I can just talk to you.”

Derek experiences a moment of sheer, numbing horror. “No,” he says, “you cannot. You will go and see Ms. Morrell.”

“But you and I just talked! Like people, even!”

“It was a fluke.”

“Y’think? This is the most I’ve heard you speak since that time you convinced me not to have a birthday party because you hate people and I didn’t want you to kill everyone I invited.”

“I didn’t want strangers on my territory. Our territory.”

“Aww. That’s so sweet, and totally not, like, psycho or anything.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing the dishes.”

“Pshaw.”

“And you’re not… doing anything else. Tonight. I need to work.”

“Doing… anything else? Doing what?”

Derek looks at him. Looks away. “Never mind.”

“No, wait, wha - ohmy _fuck_. You can hear me. Can’t you? When I’m slapping the monkey.”

Derek beats a hasty retreat to his study.

And hears Stiles calling after him, indignant and scandalized: “You could’ve told me! I mean, I know you have super-senses, but I didn’t know they stretched that far!”

Derek switches on his computer, cracks his fingers, and puts on the noise-dampening earphones. Sadly, he can still hear Stiles’s voice.

“I could’ve gone out to the woods and - but you’d still have smelled me when I got back - damn. There’s no way out of this, is there?”

Derek doesn’t answer.

“Derek?” And then, after a pause: “Jackass. I’m gonna do it tonight. And you can just suffer. Suffer like a suffering thing. Suffer, suffer, suffer. Bother, bother, bother.”

Half of the things Stiles say make no sense.

“G’night, Professor Snape!” Stiles calls, after the clanging noises of him doing the dishes are over. “Happy ‘Skulking in the Dark’ Day! You can just sit there and brood while everyone else enjoys a good wank!”

Stiles carries through on his threat. The little  _brat_.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, re-reads the figures he’s been adding up in Excel, and starts again.

And again.

*

Stiles brazens it out, like he does everything, but after he turns fifteen, he gets this antsy, twitchy look, sometimes, and takes extra-long showers, like he can wash the scent of near-constant adolescent arousal off of himself. (He can’t.)

Derek ignores it, because he unexpectedly shares Stiles’s attitude of ignoring problems until they go away, and in the meantime, Derek gives Stiles a later curfew just in case Stiles does want to date someone, or go on parties. 

Stiles doesn’t go anywhere. Unless it’s for the occasional dinner over at Mrs. McCall’s.

And Derek doesn’t give a shit - he doesn’t, honestly - but Stiles tells him anyway, like he asked about it. Stiles has developed this weird habit of just saying things, answering unasked questions, as though Derek’s telepathically communicating with him.

“I’m lame, okay? Other than Scott, I have no friends. No one ever wants to hang out with me. Or invite me to parties. Now do you see why there’s no point in asking Lydia or Danny or anyone out, right now? I might as well wait until I’m in college and my peer group has matured. That’s what Ms. Morrell says.”

“And what do you think?” Derek gives up and joins the conversation.

“I think that I’ll hopefully be less lame in college.” Stiles hitches a shoulder - doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes. “I dunno.” He slowly meets Derek’s eyes. “Or you could turn me.”

Derek freezes.

“That would… I’d be like you, then, right? Hot? Tall? Strong? Radiating animal pheromones that make girls - and possibly some guys - swoon?”

Other than feeling a dull frisson of shock that Stiles seems to have categorized him as ‘hot’, Derek feels disappointed that this is all Stiles thinks the bite is, a way of increasing his own attractiveness, not something that’ll make them more of a pack but will make it more likely for Stiles to  _leave_  Derek’s pack, to find someone else and -

“Hello? Earth to Derek?”

“No,” says Derek, and leaves it at that.

“No, what? No, you won’t turn me? Why? I’m practically pack already!”

“You  _are_  pack,” Derek growls, then grabs his jacket from the hook on the hatstand and heads outside.

“Well, shit,” he overhears Stiles saying to himself, as Derek slams the door closed. “That went great.”

It didn’t. The bite is a gift - but not a trifling one. Derek won’t give it to anyone that doesn’t understand that.

Maybe it’s time to  _make_  Stiles understand that.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

“Back up, back up! Jesus Christ, why isn’t it backing up?”

“Because you’re not in the right gear, you - ”

“In it! Oh, god, thank fuck.”

“Language.”

“Hey, I’m being polite! I’m even thanking that fuck, and everything. Whew. Okay, done with reversing. Now, I’m just gonna… ease the car outta here…”

“If you damage anything, I’ll kill you.”

“Gee, thanks for the overwhelming vote of confidence.” Stiles is sweating, the scent of it thick in the car. “Why are driveways so narrow?”

If Stiles keeps driving like this, he definitely will crash the car. “Calm down.”

“You just  _threatened my life_.”

“I retract that statement.” Derek thinks about it. “Conditionally.”

“ _Conditionally_? Oh, so your death threats are conditional, now? I’m so relieved.”

“Technically, they were conditional to begin with. Focus.”

“On your death threats?”

“On the road, moron.”

“I object to that epithet! I’m a prodigy! Ms. Morrell says so!”

“Watch. The. Road.”

“Oh, holy Buddha. Thank you for saving me.”

“That was  _my_  hand on the steering wheel. Saving you.”

“One day, I’ll become a champion F1 driver, and then you can eat your shoes. They’re good shoes, too. That’ll make it even more heartbreaking. For you.”

“Stiles. Park the car.”

“You promised to let me drive for a whole ten minutes!”

“It’s been five minutes. I think that’s enough.”

“I’m never going to learn anything if you keep babying me.”

“You’ll never grow into adulthood if you keep learning the wrong things.”

“Driving is a right thing!”

“Not if you’re doing it the wrong way.”

“You’ve got such a big stick up your ass, I bet it - um. That’s a rather disturbing image, actually - ”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Pulling over! Damn, that’s no reason to go all fangy on me. Even if you do think I’m going to kill us both. Which I’m not. I happen to like my life at the moment, thank you very much, given that I’m going to be driving this fine vehicle to Lydia’s birthday party.  _To which I am invited_. Score!”

“You’re not driving this vehicle anywhere.”

“Derek. C’mon. I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were having a nervous breakdown from the moment I handed you the keys. If you want to impress her, you’re better off showing up at her party not soaked in your own sweat.”

“…point. Okay, fine. You drive.”

Derek gets out of the Camaro, trying not to curse when he nearly runs into Stiles doing the same thing on the driver’s side.

They both swap seats, and then Derek starts the car again.

“Erica Reyes,” says Derek, aware that the name sounds like it’s coming out of nowhere. “You know her?”

“Erica? Mousy little thing in my class? Yeah, sure. I know her. Don’t talk to her much, though. Maybe I should. She seems lonely.”

“What if I said I could change that?”

Stiles falls silent. Shocked, maybe. Then, he says: “You can’t be serious. You won’t turn  _me_ , but some random stranger is okay?” He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe it. “That is what you’re talking about, right? Unless I’m imagining things. Please tell me I’m imagining things.”

“You’re not.” Derek pulls back into the driveway and up to the house, parking the car at the front. “I need to build a pack. We’ll be safer in a pack. You’ll be safer.”

“Then just turn me. Y’idiot.”

“Not you. You don’t respect the bite.”

“I - ”

“You can’t. You’ve lost things - ”

“I’ve lost  _everything_  - ”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve lost things, but you’ve never not  _had_  them. Think of Erica. She’s never had friends. You have Scott. She doesn’t even have family.”

“She has parents.”

“But are they her family? Have you ever seen them around the school? Attending ceremonies? Being there for her?”

Stiles chews his lip. “Fine. So you - is this a charity project, or something? Or,” he laughs, jaggedly. “Wait. It’s because she’s a girl, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, except that not only are you straight, but you’re apparently so hard up for it that you’ll go for a  _girl_ , a girl the same age as the kid you’ve adopted - ”

“That’s not - ”

“Have you been dating her, behind my back? Is that what this is about?”

“Even if I was dating someone,” Derek says, nettled, “it wouldn’t be any of your business - ”

“Fuck this,” Stiles spits, and bangs open the door. He’s out before Derek can do more than rip the key out of the ignition and follow after him, because Stiles smells unlike himself, bitter and injured and terrified and  _hurt_ , and that was not what Derek had intended - he’d intended to build them a  _pack_  - a pack for Stiles to belong to, a place warmer than Derek can provide, alone.

“Stiles,” he shouts, and then corners Stiles just inside their house, once Stiles unlocks the door.

Stiles tries to get past him, won’t look at him -

“Stiles - ”

“No, you know what? Fuck you. If you didn’t want me, you never had to take me in. You never had to - make it feel like you needed me, or - you don’t, do you? I could just as easily go over to Scott’s and live there, and you’d still be your nice ol’ neanderthal self over here, except for the fact that you could sneak in some nookie, every now and then,  _so sorry_  I was getting in the way of that.”

“You weren’t.” Derek grabs Stiles’s elbow. “You aren’t. That’s not what I meant. You don’t want Erica in the pack, she won’t be in the pack. That simple. It wasn’t for me that I wanted to build a pack. It was for you.”

“Why not consider Scott, then?”

“Scott’s an idiot. And he doesn’t have anything to gain from the bite. Same as you.”

“Meaning, we’ve both lost things, but we’ve never not  _had_  them?”

“Yeah." Derek holds Stiles’s gaze. "Stiles. I won’t ask Erica to join our pack.”

Stiles breathes. Tightly. “What about other people? Other… other girls?”

“Girls,” Derek says, puzzled. “Not necessarily. Why’re you fixated on - ”

“I thought it was a sex thing,” Stiles mumbles, not looking him in the eye. “A thing with werewolves. Finding a mate. That sort of. Thing.”

“Have you been reading articles off the internet, again?”

“It’s all I have! Because  _you_  won’t tell me anything!”

“My last attempt at finding a mate went wrong,” Derek says, unwilling to say anything further. “I’m not interested in finding a mate, at this point. Male or female.”

“Right. Male or - male  _or_  female? What? Since when are you bi?”

“Why would you assume I was straight?”

Stiles’s mouth is hanging open. “Oh,” he says, quietly, and then turns that telling color of puce. “ _Oh_.”

“Kid - ”

“Yeah, you’re right, that’s got nothing to do with me. You can just, um, date. Whomever. But you won’t date someone as young as me, will you? ‘Cause that would be weird, me being that young, them being that young - ”

“Stiles. Stop being paranoid.”

“You’re telling me to stop being paranoid.  _You_. The sky is surely falling. The apocalypse is at hand." Stiles won’t stop babbling. "You sure there’s nobody you’re dating right now? Thinking of dating? Or just plain boning?”

“There’s nobody. I told you.”

“Nobody.” Stiles nods vigorously. “No body. Not a single body. You’re not boning any body of any shape, size or form.”

“Go to sleep,” Derek sighs, and turns away at the foot of the staircase. “Good night.”

“And a nice night to you, too, Hermit Crab.” Then, softer, incredulous: “ _Nobody?_ ”

Derek ignores him, heads to his own room, and strips out of his jacket.

He doesn’t know why Stiles is being so peculiar about it. Voluntary chastity is hardly rare among werewolves, considering the many dangers and vulnerabilities of mating.

Maybe he’ll have a talk with Stiles, one day. Explaining why it’s a better idea that Derek doesn’t have anybody, at all, lest that person turn out to be a threat to the pack.

A threat to Stiles.

That, more than anything, cannot be borne.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Stiles says over breakfast a couple of days later. “We need a pack. And it can’t be anybody grown-up, right? Because they’ll have a pack - er, family - maybe a partner - something, anyway. Of their own. So we’ve gotta catch ’em young. As dirty as that sounds.”

Derek looks up at him, then down at his own plate of extra-rare steak, and keeps eating. It’s early in the day; he needs his calories.

“I’ll take that as a yes. So, given that, why don’t I scout for you? At school, I mean. Have a look at who there is who might qualify. Desperate enough to give being bitten by a werewolf a try, but not the sort of desperate that leads to Arkham-style insanity or arson or time in jail.” Stiles bounces his knee, tapping his spoon on the edge of his bowl. He’s constant movement, these days, bubbling with energy. It gives Derek a headache. Especially in the mornings. “Whaddaya think?”

“I think you need to finish your breakfast and get to school, unless you want another detention for being late.”

“Well,  _I_  think you ought to be delegating responsibility. Like an Alpha. Or do Alphas do everything, including the dishes? Doesn’t seem very authoritative, to me.”

“You can criticize my leadership skills after you’ve led somebody else.”

“I’ve been leading  _you_  for years.”

Derek doesn’t even have the energy to snarl.

*

Four days later, Stiles shows up after school with a tall, skinny, curly-headed boy.

Derek’s hackles rise. He doesn’t transform, but it’s a near thing. He’s been smelling that foreign scent all the way up the driveway, and he can’t smell anger (toward Derek) or lust (toward Stiles), but it still gets his back up.

“Yo, chill, dude,” says Stiles, hurriedly, with a hand planted unnecessarily in the middle of the boy’s back. “This is Isaac. He’s the Goldilocks mixture we’re looking for. Remember? Desperate, but not too desperate?”

“I object to being classified as desperate,” the boy replies, but his eyes have a hungry, needy gleam to them, and he smells like old fear, now that he’s close, layers and layers of fear, as though he’s been afraid for years.

That kind of fear is useful, in someone a werewolf is planning to turn. The gift is power, is safety; the afraid are more eager to acquire both. “You’re the Lahey boy,” Derek guesses, given the bruise fading along his jaw and the recent news about Mr. Lahey’s death in a car accident. “Nobody’s adopted you, yet?”

“I’m with Social Services,” Lahey replies. “It sucks.”

“You don’t seem to be in mourning for your father.” Then again, why should he be? He’s spent his entire childhood being brutalized by the man.

Isaac doesn’t even look away. “I mourn him,” he says. “He wasn’t always cruel.”

Derek risks a glance at Stiles - true to form, Stiles has that compassionate, eager-to-help look on his face. “Has Stiles explained things to you?”

“I kind of thought he was crazy.” Isaac hitches a shoulder in a shrug. “But then, he’s also the only person that actually tried talking to me, so I figured… what’d I have to lose?”

“You have everything to gain,” Derek says.

“So I hear. And I’ve got to say, after meeting you, I can seriously tell you’re not like other people. I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a  _werewolf_ , but… you feel different. Scary-different.”

“He’s actually a giant marshmallow,” Stiles pipes up. “With stubble.”

Isaac’s mouth twitches. Slightly. He’s still wan, but as usual, Stiles has succeeded in defusing a situation that Derek, alone, would only have escalated. Stiles makes a good Beta. Complimentary.

“Come in,” Derek says, holding the door open.

If the Lahey kid wants the bite, Derek isn’t going to say no to him. Isaac’s an orphan, now, just like Stiles. Just like Derek. They might be able to make a pack work, between the three of them - if for no other reason than they’ve got nowhere else to go.

*

Isaac takes to the bite perfectly. He goes through the fever and the madness and emerges stronger, more clear-minded and, frankly, calmer than Derek had expected. It seems that Isaac already has an anchor. Derek doesn’t ask him what it is.

What he  _does_  do is sign the papers and get custody of Isaac, officially, allowing Isaac to move in with them. Stiles is alternately fond of Isaac and annoyed with him in a brotherly way, and there’s no scent of lust from Stiles, either, which makes things easier, for Derek. A still-forming pack doesn’t need the added volatility of teenage desire. It’s better to keep things simple, the bonds plain.

Stiles grows quiet when he watches Derek train Isaac, from a corner of the basement Derek locks himself in during the full moons. The walls are scratched and gouged by decades of werewolves, not just Derek, but his previous family. His original pack.

It’s strange, to be training someone down here, instead of being trained.

Strange, and… good. Like building a pack, again.

“Why hasn’t Derek turned you?” Isaac asks Stiles, one day, panting as he collapses next to Stiles, post-training. “You’re smart. I bet you’d be fast. Real fast. Even faster than me.”

“It isn’t about being fast,” says Stiles, consideringly, the expression alien on his face. But maybe that’s who Stiles is, under all the blabber and the humor. Derek has always known that between the two of them, Stiles is the better strategist. “It’s about need. You need the bite; to you, the bite is a gift. So you’ll respect it. To me, it isn’t necessary; I’m doing okay without it. Ergo, I won’t respect it. And… honestly, I’m not 100% sure I want it. It might be better for one of us to be human, in the long-term. Strategically.”

“Did you just say ‘ergo’?” Isaac boggles. “And ‘strategically’? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Stiles laughs, and tackles Isaac to the floor, for a friendly brawl in which Isaac doesn’t inadvertently hurt Stiles with his claws, not even once.

Derek grunts approvingly, and goes back upstairs to shower.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

"You may have had a point about Erica," Stiles says, knocking on the door of Derek's room while Isaac's still at lacrosse practice. (Stiles quit lacrosse when his dad died, and hasn't been to see a single match, since. Stiles doesn't say why; Derek doesn't ask.) "Except that you can't really turn her without turning Boyd, too."

Derek pauses in calculating derivatives, saves the Excel sheet on his computer and turns in his chair so that he's facing Stiles. "I thought she doesn't have anyone."

"She doesn't _know_ she has someone. Boyd's sort of watching over her from a distance, though. That's why she hasn't gotten in trouble with bullies ever since she started high school, even though she was targeted by them almost every day, before. She must think it's some sort of gift from the gods, but it's because he's there, lurking behind her back. Glaring at people. It'd almost be cute, if it wasn't sort of creepy. Boyd reminds me of you, in a way."

"You're saying he cares about her."

"I dunno, man. 'Care' seems like an understatement. 'Blind adoration' is closer. I don't think he needs to be turned, personally, but he'd do it if she did it. He'd do anything to be able to keep looking out for her. And, y'know, he'd already have her as an anchor, which is an advantage. We'll still have to find Erica her anchor, though."

"For someone isolated from her own family, the feeling of pack should be anchor enough."

"There you go."

"I thought you didn't want me to turn her."

"Not if you wanted to bone her, no." 

"Why?"

"Why what?" Stiles looks nervous. "I just thought it was hypocritical of you to adopt _me_ and then go around banging someone my age, like it's peanuts."

"I would never do that." Not after what Kate did to him, when he was that young.

"Never, huh? Never." And Stiles is contemplative, just that quickly, mercurial as ever. "Want me to bring them in? Erica first, then Boyd?"

"What makes you think they'll follow you?"

"Erica, for the same reason Isaac did. Because no one else talks to her, anyway, and she might as well take a chance. And Boyd? He'll talk to anyone that'll be able to explain what's happened to Erica. My bet is, we'll have him turned within a week of Erica's transformation. He'll be going crazy, trying to figure out what changed her. That way, we'll have 'em both, see? Two birds with one stone."

"You're a manipulative little bastard." 

"Like I was raised," Stiles smirks, and then, to Derek's shock, darts down to kiss Derek on the forehead. "See you later, fearless leader," Stiles chuckles at the look on Derek's face, and leaves.

Ostensibly to bring Erica in.

Derek doesn't move for several minutes, unnerved, because it's the first time since his family died that someone's kissed him - like his mom used to, like Laura used to. On the forehead. Except that Stiles doesn't smell soft and female; he smells like deodorant and boy.

He still smells like home, though.

Like pack.

*

Stiles's prediction turns out to be true, although Boyd ends up involved sooner than expected, because Boyd shows up to try and stop the bite when he thinks Derek's trying to hurt Erica. Isaac leaps forward to protect Derek, and _Stiles_ leaps forward to stop everything, tripping over his words trying to explain that hurting Erica is not at all what's happening, here (okay, it'll hurt a bit, but it's for a very good reason), which is when Erica surprises everyone by wondering aloud what the hell Boyd is even doing there. And who the hell he is.

Boyd gets a constipated, painfully shy expression on his face, steps forward, and demands to be bitten first.

"If it doesn't hurt me, then I'll know that it won't hurt her," he says, and Erica still looks stunned that, apparently, she has a guardian angel. A guardian angel she doesn't know the identity of.

"You're still hella creepy, though," she says to Boyd, after they've both turned, and Erica's sickness has vanished, leaving her with a confidence she hadn't had, before.

Boyd mumbles something, and hitches his collar up so that she can't see his face.

Derek wonders whether young love is always this stupid and painful - and then, he wonders when he'll get to see Stiles like that. The thing with Lydia doesn't count, for some reason. It isn't as ragged and agonizing and desperate as Derek knows love is.

*

Abruptly, the Hale house is once again teeming with noise and life, although Boyd and Erica still have parents (nominally, at least) and go back to their homes at night. The rest of the time, though, the house is packed to the rafters, with Boyd throwing Isaac around to test his strength and Isaac trying to get Erica to join their spars.

After the requisite two hours of training, Derek leaves his Omegas to play, because play is important, among new wolves, to cement the bonds of the pack. He just sits by and watches them, and sometimes, Stiles brings his homework along and sits right next to him, shoulder to shoulder, writing essays on Shakespeare and history (not male circumcision, this time), while watching the rest of the pack. 

"Feels good, don't it?" Stiles says, one evening, eyes dipping low with laziness, half-lying back on his elbows with his laptop resting on his stomach. His body is a warm line against Derek's, like it belongs there, like it always will.

"Yeah," says Derek, voice rough as he looks across the basement, at Isaac laughing uncontrollably as Erica says something that embarrasses Boyd. Derek stretches out a hand to run it over Stiles's short hair, then lets it rest there. "Feels good."

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

"How come you outrank us?" Isaac asks Stiles, on a Saturday afternoon, when they're settled on the big couch in front of the TV with Stiles's feet in Derek's lap and Isaac sprawled across the remaining cushions. Erica's off with Boyd, practicing how to track scents in the forest. That, or they're mating. Derek does his best not to notice that they smell like mating, nowadays.

"The heck do you mean, outrank you?" Stiles says, but his eyes are narrow, sharp. He knows that what Isaac says is true. Derek waits for Stiles's answer, unmoving.

"I mean, Boyd and Erica and me, we all keep fighting to see who gets to be on top - er, figuratively - "

"Thanks, Isaac, I really needed that image," Stiles drawls. 

"I'm being serious! You don't have to fight us at all, but you're still a Beta, while the rest of us are Omegas. And before we even know it, we're listening to you. How does that work?"

"I brought you in, hello? Of course I outrank you. That, and I've been here longer," Stiles says, and kicks Derek gently in the thigh. "Haven't I, Sourwolf?"

"Yes," says Derek, shortly, and switches channels.

"That doesn't really answer my question," Isaac grumps.

"No," says Stiles, sweetly, exaggeratedly. "It doesn't, does it?"

And Isaac, because he knows better than to openly discuss the favoritism of his Alpha, shuts up.

Good boy.

*

Derek doesn't have nightmares anymore, so Stiles never sneaks into his bedroom, either, for the clinging-and-drooling routine that Stiles had seemed to think was therapeutic instead of just annoying.

Derek has no nightmares, but that changes when the Argents return to Beacon Hills. 

The only reason he even finds out about it is because Stiles gets off the phone with an increasingly-unavailable Scott and says, "Damn, the dude lands one hot chick and suddenly he's Romeo. He's all over her, I swear." 

"All over who?" Derek asks, because he needs to know the identities of anyone that his pack or those associated with his pack meet with.

"This new girl, who's totally out of his league, by the way, although she seems to like him back. Her name's Allison. Argent, I think?"

And suddenly, Stiles is against the wall, and when Derek blinks, he notices that he's pinning Stiles there. Stiles's eyes are huge. "What," Derek grates out, "did you say her name was?" 

The thoughts chase each other, quicksilver-fast, on Stiles's face. He's figuring it out. "Oh," he says, quietly, carefully, and his carefulness sets Derek's teeth on edge. Derek's fangs are out, and he can't get them to go back in. "Derek, I - "

"Tell me."

"I didn't know," Stiles says, helplessly. "It was the Argents, wasn't it? No wonder they left town just after the fire. Derek, I'm so sorry." 

"You can't trust her." Derek's claws are drawing blood from Stiles's shoulders, making little cuts, but Stiles doesn't even wince. Derek wants to stop, but he can't get his hands off Stiles, can't imagine letting go of Stiles when the Argents are here, when the Argents might take Stiles away from him. "You can't. Scott can't. Tell him - "

"Dude, I don't think Scott is going to listen, given that he's sleeping with her. Also, I don't think she's got any designs on the pack, because Scott isn't even a werewolf, at this point - "

"He's an honorary member. He's trusted here. If he were to come by the house, you would let him in."

"Are you saying _Scott_ might turn against us? Against me?" Stiles's eyes spark with anger. "Listen, Derek, I understand what you're going through, but - " 

"You don't," says Derek, feeling disconnected, numb, and tugs Stiles's T-shirt to the right, ripping it around its collar, baring Stiles's shoulder and the shallow wounds Derek's claws have left on it. "You don't understand." And he puts his mouth there, because it pains him that he's caused Stiles pain, and he wants to heal Stiles, hold him, keep him safe. He licks and licks, and Stiles _shudders_ , the scent of him going spicy and hot, and it only spurs Derek to slice open the other side of Stiles's shirt and lick the other shoulder, as well, and then lick up to Stiles's throat, where Stiles's pulse is pounding, where Stiles's breath is rasping in and out of him, fast, loud, audible.

"Fuck," Stiles is saying, his hands trembling when they come up to rest on Derek's back, just resting there, like he knows Derek needs this, like he won't try to escape. "Fuck, Derek, _please_ \- "

And Derek lurches back, shocked, taking in the nature of Stiles's scent and that Stiles is hard, panting. Derek's done this - he's done to Stiles what - what Kate -

"Hey, wait, whoa, I didn't mean - Derek, get back here, it's _fine_ \- " And Stiles's arms are wrapping around him, pulling him close, and Stiles is whispering things, senseless things, about how everything's gonna be all right and how this is just an ordinary biological reaction and that it isn't Derek's fault, nothing's Derek's fault, but he doesn't know that everything is always Derek's fault, that that's the way it works - that Derek's family dying was Derek's fault and what Stiles is feeling now is Derek's fault, because Derek did this to him, raised him this way, did something _wrong_ -

All the mistakes, all the mistakes, and still Derek can't push Stiles away, even for Stiles's own good - can't do anything but hang onto Stiles, and let Stiles hold him, let himself be comforted, as if he isn't the monster, here. "I'm sorry," Derek's saying, again and again, "I'm sorry," and Stiles is shushing him, his hand stroking Derek's hair, and the scent of his arousal has settled into something warm rather than hot, a scent of patience and kindness, when Derek doesn't deserve either of them, doesn't deserve a pack, doesn't deserve -

"I'm sleeping with you tonight," Stiles says, and then, when Derek flinches, he adds, "not like _that_ , stupid, not when you're clearly freaking out - or never, okay, never, calm _down_ \- " And Stiles is urging Derek back, onto the bed, and climbing in after Derek, kicking off his sneakers.

Derek lets him, shaken, stunned, because he needs this warmth, he needs his pack, needs to know that Stiles is safe -

"You've got to call Scott," Derek says, hoarsely, "and I have to call Erica and Boyd - "

"Relax," Stiles says, "relax. Nothing's going to happen in the next couple hours that hasn't happened in the last seven years. Nobody knows Erica and Boyd are werewolves, right? They're not even living here; technically, they're just my friends. And I'm human. I don't think anyone can doubt that, given how I got that sprain just last week, and Allison saw me getting it. If I was a werewolf, I'd have healed. Isaac's the only one we need to worry about, 'cause he's the only one living with us and he _could_ be a werewolf, and he's here, under the same roof. Nothing's gonna happen to him that you won't know about. That you won't smell, like, ages before it happens. So you can just chill out for a while. Just… close your eyes and sleep."

Derek's still too tense, muscles strung tight as he crushes Stiles to him on the bed, knowing he should be letting go, but unable to, and Stiles just keeps talking.

"I'll call Scott, tell him we need to talk. And you can be there for that talk, so - relax." Stiles runs his hands up and down Derek's back, soothing him, and Derek presses Stiles down onto the bed with every bit of his weight, settles over him, keeps him there. "I'm pretty sure I'm not going anywhere," Stiles observes, dryly, but doesn't object. 

And Derek goes to sleep like that, caging Stiles in, keeping him away from the world, and Stiles falls asleep right along with him, his chest rising and falling slowly under Derek's, his breath deep and even in Derek's ear.

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

Bringing Scott in has to be their main priority. One way or another, they need him on the pack's side, not the Argents', and the best way to do that is to turn him. At least, Derek thinks so; Stiles disagrees. They argue until they're both glaring at each other, and then Stiles leaves, slamming the door behind him, saying something about Derek's way or the highway. 

But less than five minutes later, Stiles is back, muttering that if they're going to do this, they're going to do it right, and that means gathering proof against the Argents, first.

"Scott isn't going to believe a damn thing until we have proof that the Argents are killers," Stiles says, "so don't even think about trying to turn him before that. He won't agree. We need him to realize this is a war; if he does, he'll agree to get conscripted, got it? If not, he's never going to leave Allison."

"He might still not leave Allison," Boyd points out, ever the voice of logic, and Stiles scowls.

"Yeah, but we've got to  _try_. And if Allison's really innocent, she won't be too thrilled to find out what her family's been doing, either. Isaac, you're with me. We'll be looking into what happened, seven years ago. We'll take any proof we find to the cops. Boyd, Erica, you're gonna tail Scott. Makes sure he gets home safe, each night." 

"Since when are you giving orders in my place?" Derek demands, and Stiles snorts.

"Since you're the one most at risk, and you're not leaving the house."

"The hell I'm not."

"The hell you  _are_. You're not going anywhere until Kate and whoever else was involved in the fire is arrested. Based on what you've told me, she's the real source of the problem, with the Argents."

"And there's a Hunter's Code, isn't there?" Isaac puts in.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "If Kate's exposed as having acted against the Code, maybe the Argents won't be as tough to negotiate with; that, or they'll have no choice, with what we'll be able to hold over them, once we have proof."

Derek hadn't told Stiles everything about Kate - hadn't told him he'd slept with her - but Stiles had worked it out, because Stiles is clever, and while Stiles hadn't said anything, he'd crawled into bed with Derek again, for a second night, and had held him until dawn. It had been humiliating, to be perceived as weak when he was the Alpha, but the truth was that he hadn't been able to let Stiles go.

And now, Stiles is going out there, out where the Argents might find him, and is telling Derek to stay behind.

Derek won't.

"I'll draw a circle around you and line it with wolfsbane," Stiles warns, at the mutinous look on Derek's face. "Don't think I won't."

"I hate it when Mommy and Daddy are fighting," Erica leers, and Stiles flushes. He and Derek haven't talked about that particular night, preferring to pretend it hadn't happened, but Stiles's scent has been increasingly and tellingly complex, since then, and the rest of the pack doesn't seem in the least bit surprised.

 _Derek_  is surprised. He'd like to know why no one else is. Has Stiles been so obvious, all along? Why hadn't Derek seen it? Yet another mark of his failure as an Alpha, he supposes, yet another reason why it might be wise to listen to Stiles, this time.

Except for the bit about staying at home. There's no way Derek's doing that.

*

The next morning, Derek wakes up with a wolfsbane circle around his bed. He snarls, clawing at the floorboards, but Stiles stands outside the circle, looking sad and stern at the same time.

"You're too you to stay put," Stiles says, with what appears to be genuine regret, the  _traitor_  -

"Let me out," Derek growls.

"No."

"Let. Me.  _Out_."

"Adding extra punctuation to your sentences doesn't make you more convincing. Sorry. Isaac and I are heading out to do some research.  _You_  are gonna stay put, but if you need help or if one of the Argents shows up, you're gonna give me a call with that phone over there," he nods at the mobile phone on the bedside table, inside the circle's boundary, "and I'll be right here with the cops. Got it?"

And then, Stiles leaves him there, Stiles  _leaves_ , and Derek is alone in the old house, alone and shaking with rage and helplessness, and he'll discipline Stiles when he returns, teach him what it means to put himself at risk, to put himself where Derek can't protect him, to -

Nobody leaves Derek.

Nobody.

Not anymore.

*

This is how it happens - at two in the afternoon on a Sunday, while Derek is still confined to his bedroom and has been given his lunch by an extremely jumpy (but no less insubordinate) Isaac, the police arrest Kate Argent in her home.

Three other men have been arrested, across town. They've all been charged with multiple counts of murder - the murder of the Hale family.

The date of the trial has yet to be set.

Interestingly, the remaining Argents deny nothing, and Chris Argent goes so far as to say that he'll testify against his sister, that he'll say she wasn't at home, the night of the fire. Thanks to him, Kate Argent has no alibi, and no escape.

Maybe negotiation with the Argents is possible. Maybe.

Derek's instinct says  _no_ , but Stiles, sounding reasonable over the phone, says yes. And asks Derek if he needs another canister to piss in, yet. 

"Go to hell," Derek says, and Stiles laughs.

"Man, I'm already there. I haven't slept for days, going in and out of places and gathering testimonies from people and generally making myself a nuisance to this town. The cops want me to join 'em, did you know? Once I graduate. Told me I did good work. I said that Isaac helped, and now they want us  _both_ to be cops." 

"Will you be a cop?" 

"I dunno," Stiles says. "Maybe. It'd make my old man proud."

"What about  _this_  old man?"

"You're not old, Derek. And you're not - " The sound of a gulp. "We'll talk about that later, what you - what you are, to me. But right now, I'm gonna call Isaac up and tell him what a good job he's done, and then I'm gonna come home and clear away that wolfsbane, so you can go to the toilet properly, again. My apologies to your bladder."

"Fuck you," Derek says, and startles badly when Stiles replies, "I wish you would," and hangs up.

Brat.

*

It feels as though a fist has loosened inside his chest, a fist that had been crushing his heart for years. 

Kate Argent is in jail.

Everyone that hurt his family is in jail.

Well. Everyone except for Derek, but his family would've wanted him to be happy - they'd have wanted him to have a new pack, to be able to protect them, to let them protect him, in return.

Mom would've babied Isaac like anything. Laura and Stiles would have been (alarmingly, perhaps) best friends. Josh would've pissed Boyd off, but not so much that they wouldn't have backed each other up in a fight. And Dad -

Dad would've told Derek to go after what he wanted, because he believed in his son, believed that he wouldn't want the wrong things.

But Derek has always wanted the wrong things.

He did, before, with Kate.

And he does, now.

With Stiles.

 

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

Scott and Stiles turn seventeen within a few months of each other.

And Scott refuses to be turned.

It doesn't surprise Derek, although he'd hoped that putting Kate Argent in jail would've changed things for the boy, given him a bit of perspective on his 'girlfriend', but Scott refuses to take sides in a war which, he says, he has people he loves on both sides of. (Stiles, his brother in all but name, and Allison, his lover.) Scott's an odd boy. Honorable and devoted beyond his age, but childlike in his fixations. He's fixated on Allison Argent as much as he's loyal to Stiles, so even though he says he'll be a part of the pack, that he  _is_  a part of the pack, he'll never be turned. That way, he can be the only other human in the pack, in solidarity with Stiles, and can simultaneously keep his relationship with Allison. It's an irritatingly well-thought out decision, for a kid.

In summary: Scott isn't a werewolf.

Well, all right. 

That isn't what Derek worries about, these days. What he worries about is Stiles, and how Derek may have made Stiles want him,  _why_  Stiles wants him, at all. After all the things Stiles has done for him, after all the things Stiles has given him - Stiles's laughter; his absurd running commentary on every aspect of life, no matter how mundane or supernatural; his gentleness; his infuriating disobedience just when Derek needs to be disobeyed - after all of that, what right does Derek have to take this from Stiles? This first hunger, this first starvation?

Because love  _is_  a starvation, a bottomless pit, never-filled. At least, that's how Derek has experienced it. Stiles's preoccupation with Lydia had, in hindsight, been a displacement, a fixation on yet another unattainable figure, perhaps less unattainable than Derek, but unattainable, nonetheless. Stiles has been in love with Derek, all along. With Derek's unattainability. And what has Stiles done to deserve that, to believe that all his loves are unattainable?

Nothing. Stiles has done nothing to deserve this poverty, this emptiness of the heart, this perpetual ache.

And Derek has done nothing to deserve Stiles. Nothing remotely worthy of deserving him.

He's the boy Derek raised, for god's sake. Derek can't want him. Wanting him makes Derek a monster. More of a monster than Kate, even, because at least Kate hadn't raised him.

Kate.

Derek is finally free of her. More than that, he feels relieved at the thought that Kate will never hurt anyone else, and this, too, is a gift from Stiles, a thing that Derek had been too cowardly to achieve, himself, too afraid of his own pain and his own complicity in his family's deaths. Too ashamed of himself to blame Kate the way she deserved to be blamed, too self-absorbed and paralyzed by grief to go to the police, when the evidence was still fresh, and tell them the truth. That he'd been busy fucking the woman who'd been planning to burn his family alive. That he'd been too dizzy with new desire to smell the lies on her. That he'd let it happen, let it all happen, and then, in his guilt, he'd run away. Left Beacon Hills for two lonely years before gathering the courage to return, and even that, only when he'd heard that the sheriff had died, and that he'd left an orphaned son.

Derek owes everything to Stiles. His home; his pack; his freedom from Kate. Everything.

He can't take any more from Stiles.

He won't.

 

*

He should've known Stiles wouldn't give up, though.

Stiles doesn't. The rest of the pack seems to be in on it, as well, conspiring to be elsewhere in the evenings, leaving Derek more or less alone with Stiles. Stiles, who seems to be rapidly losing all sense of personal space.

"What the hell are you doing?" Derek asks, when he finds himself working on his laptop with Stiles draped across his shoulder, like a cat.

"Hm?" Stiles runs a finger down Derek's arm. "Nothing."

"Get off me."

"I'd rather get you off."

" _Stiles_."

"Italicizing at me isn't going to make my boner go away. In fact, all that faux-authority really does it for me. Whoops," he says, when Derek plants a firm hand in the middle of his chest and shoves, nearly toppling Stiles. "That's mean, yo!"

"Get. Away from me."

For a moment, Stiles's expression flashes with hurt, but then he's bright again, picking himself up from the couch. "I get it. You're working."

"I'm. Not. Interested."

"Your full-stops don't work on me, either. Not when I know you  _do_  want me."

"I don't."

"Yeah, like you don't want rare steak for breakfast." Stiles snorts. "Ever wonder why you didn't turn me? And why I stopped wanting to be turned?"

Derek just looks at him.

"It's because an Alpha can't take a mate from the same pack that's lower in rank, not without some serious consent issues, given the mind-control thing an Alpha can allegedly use against a lower rank. That's why you didn't turn me, when I was fifteen. You already knew I was your mate. You just didn't want to know it."

"Don't make me sound like some kind of - "

"Child molester? But you didn't do anything, Derek. That's the freakin' point. You didn't even want me at that time - your instinct just knew that you  _would_  want me. One day. Like you do, now."

"Don't make things up to justify your own inadequacies," Derek snaps, knowing the moment he says it that it's a cruel thing to say, that Stiles has always felt like he wasn't good enough for the bite.

Sure enough, Stiles recoils, like he's been hit.

Derek's gut twists - but he won't take it back, can't take it back, or Stiles will come back to him, touch him, want him.

And Derek can't have that.

"Get out," he hears himself say, as if from a distance.

Stiles's face twists. "Fine. Sit there and stew in sexual frustration. Moron." 

The door slams shut behind him.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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